She didn’t talk back to him. She switched the handstick to her right hand, and drove it hard into his ribs. He swung at her, but this time she could block his punches. She hit him again, center of the chest. He gasped for breath. She knocked him across the jaw. Two of those black teeth flew out of his mouth. She swept up the handstick and drummed it down across his temple. He went down.
A glint of iron out the corner of her eye. One of the other two had a knife, and he was moving in to slide it between her ribs. Satrine spun on her heel and knocked the blade with the handstick, followed with a sharp left hook. Before he could recover, she grabbed his head by his greasy hair and pulled down, smashing his face with her knee.
The last boy standing stared at her in astonishment. She took one step toward him and he took off running.
Phillen was on his feet, now kicking the fallen gang leader. “Now it’s you and me, huh? How is it now?”
“Phillen!” Satrine yelled. He snapped to, stopping his attack on the boy.
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am!” He even saluted her. “Should I go for a lockwagon for these miscreants?” The four boys lay on the ground, moaning and coughing. They probably wouldn’t stay like that for long, though.
“We haven’t the time, Page,” she said, picking her crossbow back up. It had gotten a bit banged up, but it still looked functional. Good Druth workmanship. She went to the leader and pulled him up by the front of his threadbare coat. “Besides, these boys won’t trouble sticks or pages anymore, will they?”
“Piss yourself, dox,” the boy said weakly.
Satrine slapped him twice. “He didn’t learn anything,” she said. “You carrying shackles, Phillen?”
The page nodded and grinned. He pulled out a set from his coat pocket. Satrine took them and shackled the gang leader’s wrists behind his back. “Come on, boys, we’re late.”
She pulled the boy by the shackle chain, Phillen following her as they walked to the stationhouse.
“Ma’am?” Phillen asked. “Where’d you learn to scrap like that?”
“About four blocks that way,” Satrine said, pointing down the road. “You all right?”
“I’ll heal, ma’am,” Phillen said. “Shouldn’t have let them jump me like that.”
“You want a hint, Phillen? Next time, if you have a heavy chain in your pocket, pull it out and wail whoever’s in charge with it.” She yanked on the shackle chain in emphasis. “Gang boys tend to fall apart when their leader goes down.”
“Shut it, witch,” the boy snapped.
She knocked him across the teeth. “Your mother really failed to teach you any manners.”
“My mother’s a dox and a waste,” he said.
“Poor you,” Phillen said. “So’s mine, and you don’t see me being street trash.”
“You shut it, stick lover,” the boy shot back.
“And here I thought Inemar was becoming a nice neighborhood,” Satrine said absently. “Glad to see my worst opinions weren’t proven wrong.”
They entered the stationhouse, the gang boy half-dragged inside. There was a minimum of activity, a few regulars working in pools of low lamplight, a few dregs and gang boys sitting chained at a bench near the back. Two officers in horsepatrol uniform chatted in front of the bench—one a young woman, the only other one Satrine had seen wearing trousers. She perked up when she saw Satrine come in.
“What’s this blazing noise?” she asked. Her eyes were all up and down on Satrine. “Page and a civ bringing the blasted sewage in here?”
“She’s no civ, ma’am,” Phillen said.
“If she ain’t, I’m a blazing pence whore,” the woman said. Satrine caught the name on her badge: Welling. Did Minox say he had a sister who worked the night shift?
Satrine held open her coat. “I’m sure your rolls are worth at least a tick, Corrie.”
“Rutting saints,” Corrie said. “You’re the skirt inspector!”
Satrine stifled a laugh. Welling was proper almost to a fault, and his sister had the coarsest mouth in the station. Might as well match it with her best. “I’m not blazing well wearing a rutting skirt, am I?”
Corrie smirked. “You would know a rutting skirt, wouldn’t you?”
Satrine shrugged. “Got two daughters somehow.”
The chained gang boy groaned. “Either knock or roll each other, would you?”
Satrine yanked the chain. “You can shut it, unless you want another bolt.”
“Just put me in a blazing cell already.”
Satrine handed Phillen the chain. “Take him to the desk officer.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Phillen said. He grinned broadly. “Come on, Hoffer.”
“Wait,” Satrine said. She moved closer to the gang boy. “You’re Idre Hoffer’s son?”
“What of it?” the boy asked. “Like I said, she’s a dox and a waste.”
Now Satrine didn’t disagree. Frowning, she said to Phillen, “Favor me, Phillen.”
Eagerly he replied, “Anything, ma’am.”
“Make sure his mother gets called in for him. And if and when she comes, make sure she sits until I talk to her. Deal?”
“Even if I have to sit on her, ma’am.”
“Good lad.”
Corrie was watching her intently. Her voice dropping low and husky, she asked, “So why you here before the rutting sunrise? Don’t tell me they’re having you set up tea and bread up there before they all come in or something.”
“I better not be,” Satrine said. “I don’t know. You’re brother had that page come get me to bring me in.”
“Minox did—is he here?”
“I think so,” Satrine said. Corrie’s eyes could have burned a hole through the ceiling.
“That rutting trickster, I knew I should—”
“Corrie!” the other horsepatrolman shouted. “We’ve got to do another round.”
Corrie bared her teeth and turned hard on Satrine. “Listen, skirt. Be good to Minox. Have his rutting back, you hear? Because he’s waded in enough sewage. Got me?”
“Got,” Satrine said, more than a little spooked at Corrie’s intensity.
“Good. Have a fine day, Inspector.” She gave a brisk salute and stalked off with her partner. Satrine watched her depart and went upstairs.
The lamps were almost all out up on the inspectors’ floor, save the flickering glow in the back, hidden behind two slateboards. Shaking her head in wry amusement, she went back to her desk.
“Morning, Inspector,” she said. Welling was sitting on the edge of the desk, chalk in hand, studying his various slate scribblings. A huge pile of newsprints lay out on the desk, ink marks and circles around various stories. Her own desk was now covered with files that were not there the day before.
“Morning, Inspector Rainey,” he said flatly.
“Have you slept?” she asked him. He was wearing fresh clothes, but his coat was covered in dust, and there were specks of blood over the front of it.
“A bit,” he said.
“Just met your sister,” Satrine said.
Welling’s hand froze up. “I take it she is aware of my presence in the building, then.”
“She expressed some concern on the subject,” Satrine said. “Quite colorfully.”
“I can imagine,” Welling said. “I’m certain to hear quite a bit on our next encounter. I was supposed to go home and rest.”
“Which you obviously didn’t.”
He shrugged and turned back to his boards. “It’s been an eventful night. I think our mage killer will strike again.”
Satrine was intrigued and sat down next to him on the desk. His notes, lines, and scratches didn’t make much sense to her. “What are you basing that on?”
“Someone attacked Jaelia Tomar’s lockwagon when we were bringing her to Eastwood.”
&n
bsp; “Breakout?”
“That was the first thought,” he said. “But it doesn’t add up. It didn’t have the markings of a rescue. Single attacker, excellent combat precision.”
“How does that not—”
“Two points,” Welling said, making marks on his board as he spoke. “One, the attacker disabled Missus Tomar as part of his strike.”
“Give her deniability in case it went wrong.”
Welling chuckled. “Inspector Mirrell offered the same theory. It has merit. There is another point, though. When the attacker was escaping with Missus Tomar, I gave pursuit and tried to stop them with a magic blast. It washed off of him.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“You don’t?” Welling said hotly, his eyes wide with excitement. “What did you have in your pocket? The very spike the killer used to subdue Hessen Tomar. With it, the magic didn’t touch you. The same thing happened to our attacker. It stands to reason—”
“That he was similarly protected for the same reason,” Satrine finished.
“I thought it was especially odd that the killer would leave such objects of obvious value behind. Unless he had more.”
“Strange thing to have a lot of,” Satrine said. “I don’t suppose you’ve discovered exactly what they are?”
“No,” Welling said absently. “However, I did spend some of the night performing a small experiment.” He pointed to a pair of shackles on his desk.
“Mage shackles?”
“One of two pairs we have here. Apparently, our stationhouse is one of the few with two pairs. I’ll get to that in a moment.” He picked them up. “Now, what’s interesting is, when I’m in contact with these, I cannot perform any magic.”
“Like the spikes.”
“No, not like the spikes. The spikes sap me, physically. The shackles have no such effect. They only block me.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the spikes are different than the shackles. The significance of that is not something I’ve further examined.” He stepped over to the board, placing the chalk on it, then stepping away without writing anything. “Through less than traditional means, I was able to track the killer and Missus Tomar to an alley, through the sewer tunnels, and back out. The path led to the same alley where we found Hessen Tomar.”
“That’s interesting. But then what happened?” All of this sounded strange, and Welling himself was in an odd state. Which was typical for someone who had stayed up all night, probably drinking more bad tea than anyone would recommend.
“The trail was lost.”
“Were these ‘less than traditional means’ magical, Inspector?”
“They were,” Welling said. “But secondary evidence supported their accuracy.” He took another step toward the board, drew a single line between two markings. After another moment, he erased it with the side of his hand.
“Fine,” Satrine said. “But forget the magical and secondary evidence. It led you back to the alley. That has to be significant.”
“We certainly know the killer has been there before,” Welling said absently. He was more interested in whatever markings he was writing.
“If the trail was lost there, maybe it ended there. We should be looking at the butchers and the barbers again.”
“I am fairly certain that the trail was merely lost at that point, but it did not terminate there. Missus Tomar was not to be found.”
“But she might have been in the butcher shop, for instance. I had a strange feeling about that bunch, especially the youngest.”
“I am certain they are not involved, Inspector Rainey,” Welling said harshly.
“How?” This didn’t fit his earlier methods. Welling wouldn’t dismiss an avenue of investigation without good cause. “I know you interviewed the youngest outside, and you were upset about it, but . . .”
“I went into the Brondar home last night, Inspector.”
“What? Did you get a writ or something?”
“No writ. I knocked and was admitted. I spoke to all of them, at length with Joshea . . .” He stumbled. “With the youngest. I am certain that none of them were involved in the attack on the carriage or the abduction of Missus Tomar.”
“Joshea?” That was the first time he had used anyone’s given name, save Nyla, who was his cousin. “Is he family?”
“No, of course not.” Welling wasn’t looking at her, his attention determinately focused on the slateboard. He was hiding something, something personal.
Satrine grabbed Welling by the shoulder and turned him around. “Is he a mage?” she hissed out.
He slapped her hand off his shoulder and grabbed for it, but she pulled away too quickly. It was too late, though. The truth was clear in Welling’s face.
“Uncircled?” she added.
“It’s not pertinent to the case,” Welling said.
“How could it not be?”
He spat out his words with raw anger. “The spikes, Inspector Rainey. We know the killer is not a mage. It could not be the Firewings, it could not be me, and it could not be Joshea Brondar. Simple deduction.”
Eyes red, nose flaring, he turned back to the slateboard and continued his pattern of making marks and erasing them. Satrine sat down and let him do this for some time.
“What are you trying to do?” Satrine asked after she had decided he had cooled down.
“Determine where the killer is going to take Missus Tomar to kill her.” He spoke as if he had never had a heated temper in his life.
“How do you know he’s going to kill Missus Tomar? And even presuming that’s correct, how can you figure out where he’ll do it?”
“The first part is rather simple deduction. Why else would the killer of Hessen Tomar capture Jaelia Tomar, except to kill her as well? Well, no, I did speculate that she might be his accomplice and the whole matter is an elaborate marital squabble. Then I recalled you telling her the news of her husband’s death. Her reaction was far too raw, too nakedly emotional to be anything but genuine. Unless I am grossly underestimating her skills as an actor, but I don’t think I am. I can speculate any number of motives behind such killing, though my preferred reason is in order to perform another ritualized murder.”
“Another?” Satrine was amazed he had taken breath enough for her to get a word in.
“This is only an instinct, mind you,” Welling told her. “I can’t put any reasonable deduction behind it—save that he abducted Missus Tomar last night rather than killing her then and there—but I have a sense that the killer has, in his mind, a higher purpose that requires ritual, and it is incomplete.”
“That’s your main theory?”
Welling indicated the scribbling on the slateboard. “I have several theories, of course, as you can see. That’s the one I consider of highest probability. Another one, though this is of much lower likelihood, is that the killer had romantic notions toward Jaelia Tomar, and his attack last night was, in his mind, a rescue of sorts. Though I have little doubt of Missus Tomar’s fidelity, and it is highly unlikely she would welcome his advances.”
“You’ve given this some thought.”
He nodded. “For the past few hours I’ve considered every possibility I can conceive, eliminated those that are most unlikely, and examined the remaining for all possible scenarios playing out from here.”
Satrine studied the various hash marks, single letters, numbers, and symbols on the board. It was all gibberish to her. “That’s what you have written up here?”
“More or less,” Welling said, staring at it.
Satrine’s head was pounding. “I can’t make any sense of your big board.”
“This isn’t the big one,” he said. “That’s somewhere else.”
Satrine didn’t want to think about that. “All right, never mind. How can you figure out where h
e may or may not kill her?”
“I can’t,” Welling said, gritting his teeth. He put down the chalk and stalked away from the desks. “I have nowhere near enough information, and little more than second or third levels of speculation, which makes everything I try to build a house of straw.”
“So why am I here this early?” she asked, annoyed.
Welling looked up, surprised. “Because I need your help, Inspector Rainey.”
Satrine’s annoyance blossomed into anger. “With what? You’ve just admitted you don’t know anything! And our one decent lead you insist had nothing to do with it! So what can I possibly add?”
Welling’s mouth hung open for a moment, his eyes racing back and forth. Satrine imagined that he was thinking so many things that he was unable to verbalize any of it in a sensible way. Finally he said, “Jaelia Tomar was taken from Constabulary custody, and so we failed in our duties to her safety. I failed, specifically. And as of this moment, she may or may not be alive. If she is, then there is still some small chance of preventing her murder. If . . .” He faltered and looked at Satrine with confusion. “If all we do is wait for her body to turn up, then what function do we serve? What are we, then, but the morbid cataloguers of the atrocities of humanity?”
His words knocked Satrine out of her anger. For several moments, she stood dumb, unable to come up with an adequate response to his oration. “You’re right, Welling,” she said finally. “I just . . . I need a cup of tea first before I can think.”
“It’s there on your desk,” he said, pointing to the cup she hadn’t noticed. “Cream only.”
That was a pleasant surprise. Satrine took her chair and sipped at the tea. “You made this?”
“No one else is around,” he said. “Nyla usually arrives around seven bells.” He took a good look at her. “Were you in a fight?”
“It was an eventful morning. Some Inemar rats had ganged up on the page you sent to fetch me.”
“How many?”
“Five,” Satrine said, trying her best to sound casual about it. “We only brought in one, though.”
Welling nodded respectfully. “That’s good work.”
A Murder of Mages: A Novel of the Maradaine Constabulary Page 17
